Helpers

A rolling vertical pelt of rudbeckia and jewelweed rims the creek’s edge all through the meadow, marking where the mower decided “tamed” should end and “left to its own wild business” continue untouched and unbridled. Everywhere I look is a sea of late summer green dotted generously with yellow blooms that resemble fallen stars (rudbeckia) and tiny delicate princesses’ slippers (jewelweed). Occasionally a surprise cluster of orange jewelweed pushes its golden sisters aside, wedging in to be noticed.

Up until last Friday, I hadn’t walked for five days and was feeling sluggish, pitiful and stale. I don’t lean toward an addictive personality, but if I did, my drug of choice would be these size 6 1/2 feet of mine connecting rhythmically with the soft soil of the paths we keep tending across the land. My raggedy soul is better for it and tells me so in the middle of management meetings when the discussion grows tense yet I remain calm and gentle. Without those daily walks, I fray at the edges and leave a usually-vigilant internal editor in the dust. And while I tried to convince myself I’m sturdy enough to head out no matter what the weather, the heat and humidity of the past week pushed me back indoors where I settled for a slimmed down yoga routine and free weights to at least salve my fitness conscience. The kittens joined in and a good time was had by all.

Now, on a late Friday afternoon, I’m stretched out flat on my stomach with a blanket beneath me in the shade of the Old Man sycamore by the bend in the creek. The fingers of my right hand absentmindedly comb the cool thin grass while my other hand grasps a pen, shaping images into sentences. I’d been up since 7:00a.m. making tray upon tray of granola for Saturday’s market—a job that requires continuous standing, bending, lifting—and for the first time in seven hours, I’m silent and heading toward stillness. I smartly gave myself a five-day weekend with only granola and log-splitting on the agenda. Anything else I accomplish will be born of that luscious mix of creativity and impulse.

It’s a dance, this life of daily labor and leisure (tilted lately a bit more heavily toward labor), balancing relief and tension, reassurance and uncertainty. A dear friend once confided in my that she’s done chasing happy and is instead cultivating contentment. Just the sound of that slowed my heart rate from frantic bird speed to that of a turtle’s (passive research reveals the normal rate to be about twenty-five beats per minute for turtles, compared to 282 beats per minute for a bird. I can relate to both). I want so much to be where she is, and have miles to go.

So, I’m finding small ways to get there, and they seem to be working. Patrick has introduced us both to the art of meditation and I’m embracing it with a peaceful determination. He made himself a string of beads that he fingers steadily in silence, helping him move from anxious to calm, distracted to mindful, restless to languid. I dug through my stash of beads and cording, making myself a couple of strands and now keep one on my nightstand and the other on the end table next to the couch. One’s rather whimsical with fat pink rabbit beads, the other more traditional and understated. I took both down to the meadow with me just because I wanted their company and, during a break in the writing, flipped over on my back, gazed into the Old Man’s canopy of fluttering green leaves and started working my way through the rabbit strand, each bead marking something for which I was grateful. I must have drifted off because I woke up with a slight jerk when the strand dropped from my hands onto the blanket. It was simply glorious, to thank my way into such solace.

Without beads, I know the jewelweed and rudbeckia blooms would get me there just as peacefully. So does each step I take from the back door to the woods, walking sticks in each hand to frame the rhythm of my gait. What a gift, to realize that I’m never separated from what I need to get me where I want to be, that helpers are all around and waiting for me to notice.

All I need is to get out of the kitchen and start walking.